Brick
#24 of Fae's Christmas Music-Themed Special!
Heya, furballs! Welcome to Fae's Christmas Music-Themed Special 2012! The format is the same as the previous years! Five stories to tantalize your Christmas period. From the 21st to the 24th, you'll get a series of short stories all focused around a particular song's title or lyrics. And finally, on the 25th, you'll be treated to a much larger story that will have a coherent story from year to year, starting this one! Exciting!
Don't forget to keep an eye on my Twitter (@FaoraMeridian) if you want to know what's going up ahead of time, or if you want to be alerted to other stories or otherwise just hear me ramble on about random things!
But for now, I hope you enjoy Brick, the third of the 2012 stories!
- Ol' Saint Fae
Brick
He was using me. That's all it was.
I knew it. I always knew it. I knew it from the first moment he invited me past the gates. I knew it the moment he invited me back to his place. Course, we were younger then and I didn't really think anything of it at the time. What's a couple of teenagers sneaking out really gonna do? Course, the parents would have killed us if they'd seen us together with his cock stuffed in my ass, but what do I care now?
The gates are tall. Black iron. Pointed tops to impenetrable bars. It doesn't matter much to me. I know I only have to be patient. I just have to wait. The cock straining in my pants - or what's left of my pants - doesn't seem to want to wait. It can. It knows as well as the rest of me that the wait's worth it.
Then it happens. The gate at the driveway swings open, and a big black Mercedes rolls out. The bushes to either side of the gate keep me hidden, and the Merc rumbles down the street as the gate begins to close. Fucking idiots. You'd think that with their money, they'd be worried about exactly what I'm about the door.
Gate tries to close. I dart through it before it can block me out. Yellowed teeth bare in a grin as I sprint across the massive front lawn in an attempt to reach cover again. Track and field star in high school, before they kicked me out too. I wonder if Mister Carlsson could see me now, what he'd think. "Fuckin' fag," comes to mind. He'd never have seen me in a mansion like this. But then, no one would have.
It's a tricky jump, to safely dive into the garden that ringed the mansion's wall. Too far left and I hit the rose bushes, and that's enough to leave cuts for days. Too far right and I'll hit the statue of the naked lion, posing with such grandeur I'm surprised it doesn't have a flashlight stuck in its ass so it can imitate the sun that so clearly shines out of it. That's the problem with the rich types. They buy all this shit and set it up so proudly, and they've got no fucking clue how stupid it all looks.
But the jump is perfect. I've made it twice in the last week, after all. I stop and I wait and I hold my breath as I look for any of the security I just know they have to have hired at some point. But no big burly german shepherds come around the garden to tackle me to the ground and cuff me. That's a shame. That sounds like it might be fun in the right circumstances.
It takes me a moment to force the thoughts out of my head. Climbing is hard enough work when you don't have your cock peeking out the torn leg of your pants, straining to get into something. I wait a few more moments, looking out for the guards that still don't seem to have been hired, before I duck behind the statue to the drainage pipe that runs down the wall there.
Feline heritage makes the climb a whole lot easier than it otherwise could have been. Everyone in school said I was so lucky with my genetics. I could do anything. Be anything. Maybe I could take the feline thing too far and become a cat burglar. No, that idea's as bad as that joke. Never ever ever ever say it again. Claws dig into the pipe, in the same little divots that I've left on previous climbs. No sense doing the thing more damage. That might draw attention. Attention might mean I'd have to find another way inside.
He hears me, of course. The pipe goes right up past his window, after all. He always knows when I'm coming about a half minute before I hit the window. It slides open silently and a rat's face peeks out into the open air. Neatly combed hair, sharp features. Soft green eyes. Pretty-boy dandy, but hey, you take it where you can find it. "Warren, good to see you," I whisper up.
He looks a little concerned, but I see the way he's watching me. He hadn't expected this either, but he's about to smile. I know it. I know him. And then it comes, and he whispers back, "They only just left, Jake!"
"Which means they won't be back for a while, you idiot," I hiss back at him. He takes no offence; his smile just grows. He knows he's got no idea about this whole sneaking around thing, even after all these years. Sheltered little rich bitch in his high and mighty world. Warren was everything I wasn't. He still had his family. They hadn't kicked him out onto the street for being some dirty cocksucker. Maybe in their society the punishment would be so much more civilized. Maybe he'd lose access to two of daddy's credit cards. Or worse - heaven forbid! - three of them.
He didn't help me through the window. He just stepped back and let me crawl in. I wouldn't even both with him at all, if I had my own way. He was just using me. I knew it damn well, but that was okay. I was using him, too. I wonder if he's smart enough to see it, or if I'm just brighter than everyone ever thought.
Of course he doesn't kiss me. We're not partners. He's not my fucking boyfriend and I'm not his. He takes me by the hand though, tender fingers against my calloused paws as he leads me through that bedroom, easily worth what my parent's whole house was, and all but drags me into his en suite. A fucking en suite. I hear there's one in every bedroom in the house. Jesus fucking Christ, how many johns does one house really need when three people and two maids live there?
It doesn't hurt that the en suite is the same size as the full fucking bathroom in my parent's house, and then some. He told me once that he wanted to have a small hot tub put in so he could relax there when he didn't want a shower. I'm just glad he has a shower at all. I start to take off my shirt even without being prompted. Nancy boy's not gonna do anything with me if I stink of a life on the street.
He does help strip me down, of course, and himself right after. He's obviously been a bit pent up; his silk boxers are tented and damp with pre, and I just can't help but laugh as I start the shower. "Eager little fucker, aren't you?" I ask him.
Warren blushes at me. Eager little fucker was just one of the things he liked to hear. Had an ear for more rough language, even if he never used it himself. "You haven't been by in over a week," he answered, and I just laughed again. A week? He was gonna complain that he hadn't gotten any in a week, when he lives in... fucking this?
"Well, that's what you got me now for," I tell him, as I step into the steaming shower and reach back. Spread those cheeks for him, let him get a good, long look at the ass he's gonna be fucking in a few moments. Not before he cleans me up, of course. It wouldn't be proper or hygienic or pleasant to stick your dick in a guy when he's not clean all over. Poor rat wouldn't last a couple days on the street.
It almost made me wonder why he bothered with these little dalliances behind his parent's back. Did he want them angry? Did he want them to find out that he liked sticking his dick in other guys? Or was it a status thing? Did Warren just like that he had a homeless snow leopard barely out of high school willing to sneak into his mansion and take his load?
If it's something else, I dunno what it is. He does like washing me, though. Maybe he just likes to make sure I'm clean. Maybe he doesn't trust that a homeless bum like me could do a good job on my own. Shit, I've had showers before, you prissy ass. I wasn't born on the street like some of the other guys I hang out with.
I can't argue it doesn't feel good, though. Gentle hands, hot water and bubbly shampoo all work through my fur, and despite my disgust at his life I can't help but relax against him. The more he washes me the closer he gets, as if he can scrub the unappealing parts away and leave himself with only a pristine, prim and proper person's posterior to penetrate and pump positively packed with cum.
Hmm. No P word for that, is there? Fuck it.
The water that runs off me is pretty dark. You pick up a lot of grime wandering around the streets, begging for coin when you can't earn it with any talents you might have. Course, I wouldn't busk even if I could. I use what got me thrown out in the first place. Those torn and tattered clothes Warren stripped off me were bought and paid for with the asshole he's so intent on cleaning up. Keep scrubbing, rat-boy. You're not gonna scrub away the seven guys who screwed it to hell and back yesterday.
It feels like he's given up trying to clean me after a couple more minutes. My fur's as white as it's gonna get, and it's only gonna stay that way for a day or two at the most. His arms wrap around me and squeeze me tight, and it's almost a pleasant enough sensation to make me forget I'm not being used. Poor rat. Parents would be so furious if they found out what a fag he was. Oh, sorry; it would be positively dreadful for their social standing, should word escape that their first and only child was a depraved homosexual. Fuckwits.
When he presses into me though, I remember. My hole always gets a good workout, and spitlube only does so much. Stretching me out's no big problem. Getting your cock down to the root isn't a problem. Steaming water running down his cock and mixing with his pre is more lube that I usually get, and his tip's in me before I even realized he'd lined me up and hit my bull's-eye.
There's something different about this payment. On the street, a dick in my ass means coin, notes. It means food. Heat. Survival. It sure doesn't mean a good time. Who wants to give the dirty cat a reach-around when they're already paying for the privilege of that tight hole milking their balls dry? Here, I'm being used in an even more perverse way. Warren's gentle. He's slow. He's careful, and he's... dammit, he's good.
He's using me. He's getting a fix from me, just like the guys on the street who need a quick fuck do. Instead of a wad of cash for their wad of cum, he's getting something else. Something personal, something emotional. It's his family and his life, I know; he's said as much. Whatever it is, it's gotta be worth it. God knows he could get his dick wet in a hundred other guys if he wanted to. Why he keeps telling me to come back, I don't fucking know.
Course, that's also why I keep coming back. He's sinking down deeper, and in just that sorta way that anyone who's ever taken a cock and loved it knows how they want it. His hips wiggle - it's almost cute - when he pushes a bit more into me. He feels good. Whatever he's getting out of it, it's not completely hollow. He's getting something more. My moans? They do echo off the tiles a whole lot when I get going. His touch is something alien to what I'm used to. That's not why I keep coming back, but it sure doesn't hurt either.
His hands shift to my hips as he eases the last couple inches inside me. He's not one of those big guys who just stuffs you full and roughly jerks you back and forth until he blows. Warren's a bit small for his size, but that's just fine by me. Makes him easy to take. Makes him a pleasant distraction, a tease when I escape the reality of the world for a while. I can feel him throbbing inside me as he hugs himself against my back. I wonder if he can still smell the street on me, or if he managed to scrub it all away for a while.
Fingers rub down my belly, and I fight to keep it from rumbling as long as they're there. They hit my cock and stroke along it, and that moan coming out of me all of a sudden is fully honest. Who's gonna give the dirty cat a reach around when they're paying to fuck him already? This damn rat. Fuck him. Asshole, making me have to keep reminding myself that he doesn't really care, and just wants to stick it in me to stick it to the old man.
Could almost have fooled me, though. He nuzzles. He licks. He even kisses the back of my neck, the asshole. Hugs me close and squeezes my dick like we're sharing this. He knows better. I know he knows better. He knows I know he knows. Doesn't matter how he rubs my cock and squeezes my balls, I know that his hips aren't pumping himself into me because he wants me. I'm a means to an end. My end is his means.
And where his means will end is something I always struggle with. I might have made him pull out of me all those other times we've gotten together in his bathroom - sorry, his en suite - or bedroom, but he just fucking gets to me. Every thrust he's making is turning me on that much more, just because what he's paying to get in my hole is something I want a bit more than money. I don't make him pull out because, fuck it all, I don't want him to.
He actually feels good. For someone who's not a street whore and who doesn't get laid often, Warren actually knows how to work my body. His hips press against my ass and grind there just the way I like. He pants against my neck, nips it every now and again, just the way I like. He fucking teases me to find out what I like, and then he uses it against me. Or on me. Is it against me if he's actually enjoying it? Am I more than a means to get back at his parents and blow a load at the same time?
Does it matter if that's all I am when it feels this good?
I can almost trick myself into feeling less hollow. Like there's more in me than just five inches of hard rat cock. I press against the wall of the shower as it keeps spraying me, keeping me clean despite the dirty act going on right behind me. He's squeezing me tighter now, and it makes my own damn cock hurt with how good that feels. If he'd stop squeezing my balls for a moment I think I might burst all over the wall, but it doesn't matter at the moment. For the moment the pleasure's damn good, and every time he slides into me it just feels better and better. I love it. I hate that I love it.
And the rat's got stamina. He can go for hours, I know, but maybe he doesn't have all that long today. Or maybe he's just pent up. He's huffing against me now, panting wetly against my back. He's stopped kissing and started moaning. When did I start moaning? Must have been a while now, cause I've gotten damn loud. Well, maybe if he'd stop ramming my prostate I might quiet down a bit. Maybe the hired help won't know the difference between our moans. Not sure I care if they find out. Warren would, but I think he's too far gone to care.
He doesn't say anything, of course. There's no need to speak. He's just using me, and he's just using me. It's okay right now, because there's the heat of his load spurting into me. There he goes, shooting off. I didn't know it was coming, but I wouldn't have had him pull out anyway. I want him to claim me, as stupid as I know that sounds. And it feels so damn good I just don't even care. Then the fingers squeeze tighter at my balls, and it hurts just as damn good, and I find myself unable to do anything but spurt pre against the wall. It's washed away a couple seconds later as waves of oh-shit-oh-fucking-god-uuuuggggghhhhh hit me. I can't cum, but I can still cum.
He's never done that before, but I'm not gonna complain. I feel myself shaking against him while he hugs me tighter with his other arm, my cock left alone to throb uselessly under the hot spray. I back up and slam Warren against the wall, forcing his cock to stab deep into my ass again. Don't want him pulling out. Need every drop. Every fucking drop. Every drop helps fill the hollowness.
The moans stop a few moments later. We're panting, the sound almost blanketed by the shower. My cock's still hard, even if I can feel his softening up. He slips out a couple seconds later despite my squeezing down on him, though nothing but water ends up trickling down my thighs. Every drop, down deep. Filled me up a bit. "Why didn't you let me cum?" I ask. I didn't even know I was so bothered I needed to ask.
The rat's chin rests on my shoulder while I grind against his spent cock. Maybe he has more for me? "We're not done yet, Jake," he tells me, and all of a sudden I feel painfully hard again. "You're coming all this way... it's too good to waste on a quick... ah..."
"Fuck?" I offer. Prissy bitch. Use your goddamn words.
"Yeah. A... a quick... fuck." If I could see him, I swear to fucking God I bet his face is lit up like a Christmas tree. "I want something more."
More? Bitch, I just gave you my ass and let you cream it. The fuck more do you think I have to give? You think I'm gonna pay you for a shower and a screw? "Whatcha want?" I ask instead. Don't be a dick, Jake. If you're a dick, he won't have you back again.
When he pulls away, I turn around. There he is, all bent over against the wall just the way I have been, so many times. His backside juts out, that ratty little tail - heh... ratty tail... -- curled off to the side. Do I curl mine away like that? Does it just go up? Must be up. Most guys like to tug it when they fuck me. Never do tell them how much it hurts. That's my spine you know, asshole.
Still, anger at my line of work fades away when I look at his flat little ass. There's not much to it, and I can clearly see that pink little pucker of his begging for something. Now this is new, and all of a sudden I realize why he wants to keep me hard. Little bitch finally wants to see if turnabout's really fair play. Wants to be a real fag now, does he? "Poor, needy Warren need a big kittycock stuffed in his ass, does he?"
Course he does. Bitch finally sacked up enough to really show the parents.
The words keep him blushing, and I know he wanted them. He nods harder than I've ever seen on anyone as he shakes his ass at me. It does look good, and I can't remember the last time I've had anything but my hand working my cock. And after the workout he just gave me, I don't think I'd mind a fair bit of turnaround. "Well, better brace it up, mousy. That's one cherry that's not gettin' popped gentle."
Sure, it might all be hollow. Yeah, he's just using me. And just used me. And would probably just keep using me. But hey, that hole of his feels nice and warm against the head of my cock. That's good enough for now. He may be using me, but I'm using him, too.
No... no... now I'm using him; there we go. Tight little fucker, aren't you? C'mon, mousy. Spread those legs and moan like you mean it.
Yeah. Just like that. Who's hollow now?
Listen to Brick by Ben Folds Five with this Grooveshark link!
Brick lyrics
Six am.
Day after Christmas.
I throw some clothes on in the dark.
The smell of cold,
Car seat is freezing,
The world is sleeping,
I am,
Numb.
Up the stairs,
To her apartment,
She is balled up on the couch.
Her mom and dad,
Went down to Charlotte.
They're not home to find us out.
And we drive.
Now that I have found someone,
I'm feeling more alone,
Than I ever have before.
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly,
Off the coast and I'm headed nowhere.
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly.
They call her name,
At seven thirty.
I pace around the parking lot.
Then I walk down,
To buy her flowers,
And sell some gifts that I got.
Can't you see,
It's not me you're dying for.
Now she's feeling more alone,
Then she ever has before.
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly,
Off the coast and I'm headed nowhere.
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly.
As weeks went by,
It showed that she was not fine.
They told me, "Son, it's time to tell the truth," and,
She broke down,
And I broke down,
'Cause I was tired,
Of lying.
Driving back,
To her apartment,
For the moment we're alone.
She's alone,
And I'm alone.
Now I know it.
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly,
Off the coast and I'm headed nowhere.
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly.